Watch Me By Moonlight
by EstelWolfe
Summary: While traveling on the road, Carl notices something odd about Van Helsing's sleep patterns. Two-Part Vignette, completed
1. Van Helsing

**Watch Me By Moonlight**

**Part 1**

I can still feel it, on nights like tonight, when the full moon gallops riderless across a clear sky.  All the stars, the constellations I have known instinctively since the day of my foundling birth by the Order, all pale to insignificance beside that wonder of creation.

Throughout the whole of these long nights my eyes find no closure, my body no rest, no matter how weary or pained I might be, no matter what plans or purpose I may be pursuing.  Incessantly, at some imperative as far beyond my control as the beating of my heart, my eyes turn toward that pale white ghost, dragging my heart, my blood with them, and I feel it within me.

The savagery of the beast is diminished, suppressed to the point of non-existence.  My own hunter's instincts are still the only ones that control my actions, my strength still that of training rather than sorcery.

No, the beast that prowls my blood and turns my head to the heavens on these nights is not the bloodthirsty one that drank Anna's blood so eagerly, not recognizing the scent of its mate 'til the time for recognition was gone and all it could do was voice the keening cry of mourning that rose unchecked by dignity from its throat.

Dignity suffered often that night.  Even Carl, innocent Carl who takes some strange pleasure in cursing and has more pride than any friar less talented or in an order less needy would have been allowed… even Carl must have felt his dignity tarnished to hold a half-mad, half-frozen monster hunter in his arms.  Neither of us has ever mentioned that week, but I can sense that he thinks of it often, just as he worries over these current nights, when the full moon becomes the beginning and ending of my world.

He needn't fear, though.  Anna did slay the blood-hunting beast.  The beast that remained is one that might have been born in my own heart ages from now, the pure essence of the werewolf, untainted by the sins of man or beast.

Freedom.  A lust for the utter freedom of the werewolf rushes through my veins as the moon caresses my being, completely oblivious to my existence, unaware and immune to the effect it causes.

It was not duty or honor or vengeance that drove my wolf form at Dracula.  The beast that I became was not unintelligent, nor was it incapable of emotion… it simply had little care for mine.  No bloodlust, no heady intoxication of power, no pain launched me at the vampire's throat during that first drive.  It was the sense of danger that my wolf form drew from Dracula, a danger that it formed as much from the vampire's actions and stance as from my memory, a terrible danger that would not have touched life or limb that drove claws and teeth forward.

Werewolves were never created for cages.  They are creatures of freedom born for the night, creatures that become dangerous, vicious as their desire to remain free is tainted by a desire for power, the ultimate power over life and death.

For a man who has allowed his actions to be led by others his entire life, it was a heady feeling indeed, and I can't help but smirk as I wonder what pains Jinette and the Order would experience if they knew what new paths my mind had wandered that night, continues to wander three night out of every month.  Would they pale to know that their puppy had begun to not just gnaw at his string but to tear at it?

Would they try to kill the pup before he could become a danger?

If that were their intent, then they would fail.  There are no human hunters who can match me, of that I am certain, and the Order take their vows too seriously to deal with demons.  Their only choice would be Carl, and from him I know I have nothing to fear.

Carl is watching me again.  I can feel his gaze, can picture perfectly the look of mixed anxiety, pity, caring, and exasperation on his face.

He's finally begun to realize the pattern that determines which nights I neglect sleeping and keep watch the whole night.

"Van Helsing, I swear you have to choose the rockiest places to make camp!  No matter where I try to sleep I'm going to end up with a bruise."

The petulant note to the friar's voice is as much the cause for the short snort of laughter as the words.  Of all the things he might have said, that was the most unexpected… and thus the most expected and welcomed.

"So you've tried every strip of ground in a fifty foot radius, then?"  I would turn my gaze from the heavens to my companion, but my eyes refuse my command.  On these nights it seems that only mortal peril could break the hypnotic hold of that bright white orb.

"No.  I neglected the ones where the damned stones showed themselves like decent fiends."

Carl's voice trips slightly over the 'damned', but I know he's grinning happily to himself all the same.  How this man ever decided to enter the church is beyond me, but I still thank whatever angel or demon whispered the suggestion into his ear.

"If you're asleep you won't feel anything."

"Yes, but it's the getting to sleep part that's proving rather difficult."  A thrashing to my left accents the remark as Carl shifts positions yet again.

"At least the stones aren't trying to eat you.  Unless they do, I'm afraid there's not much I can do to help you.  Do holler if they sprout teeth, though."

Dead silence reigns for a moment, and I smile slightly, knowing that Carl will be searching his mind for any reference to flesh-eating stone monsters.  It's become a bit of a game—I either invent or describe a monster, and he tries to either call me on it or name it.

"Do you mean carnivorous stones as in the type I'm sleeping on, or carnivorous stones as in… I don't know… statues that someone brought to life?"

Silence is the only answer I'm willing to give, and for a short while my companion is completely still.

"Are you planning on taking the whole watch tonight, or will you give me a fair share?"

Any hint of a smile vanishes rapidly.  Carl will usually pursue a game to the point that I'm ready to slay him instead of whatever I'm hunting, and he tends to avoid tension just as avidly as some men avoid the plague.  For him to ask me that…

"If I'm tired I'll wake you."

Carl doesn't answer, but I can hear him moving towards my position as quietly as he can.  I school my features, careful not to give any hint that I hear him.  He pauses for a moment, hesitant, two feet to the left of me.

The step that ghosts him into my peripheral vision is the only one that is truly silent, worthy of any hunter.

Even with most of my vision centered on the moon as it glides across the sky, I can see the intense relief on his face, hear the sigh that accompanies it.

"No gold?"

Carl shakes his head, answering my wry grin with a shaky smile.  "No gold.  I'm sorry…"

"Don't be.  Now will you sleep?  If there're clear nights for the next two days, at least one of us will need to be rested."

Some of the relief drains away, but he nods anyway, moving back to the camp and settling down quickly.

It is over an hour before his breathing takes on the steady rhythm of true sleep.

No, there is no gold in my eyes… but still the same curse in my veins.


	2. Carl

**Watch Me By Moonlight**

**Part 2**

No gold.  No gold ringed his eyes, no sign that supernatural strength surged through his veins, writhing in search of an outlet.

And even if there had been, what would I have done?

I still carry the stake he gave me, made of silver, a stake designed with one purpose in mind—to kill werewolves.

A stake given to me for one purpose—to kill Van Helsing.

When first he watched the moon, on the return trip from Transylvania, I thought he was searching the heavens for his lover, the woman that even his lycanthropic form recognized as a cherished mate, albeit too late for it to be of any good.  The memory of those moments still haunts me, the sight of my companion, the man I have armed and bantered with for a decade, the man I was sent to keep alive, reduced to a snarling animal; the howl of grief that turned into a man's anguished denial, a denial that didn't become more coherent than 'no' for hours to come.

I shiver still as I remember that week, the nightmares of Dracula's castle, the stench of death and decay that seemed to seep with greater insistency from the stones as the hours since its masters demise lengthened.  I can still choke on the doubt and hesitancy that consumed me as I searched for an exit from the castle, not wishing to call on the devil to give us wings with which to escape, unable to find Dracula's other methods of transportation—methods that I knew must exist, for otherwise we would die there, myself, Frankenstein's creation, and the exhausted and unconscious monster hunter that I had placed in the creature's arms for safekeeping, unable even to find clothes to cover the worst signs left from the transformation and the battle.

My mind finally shies away from the memories, seeking refuge in simpler pastimes.

If Van Helsing's new game is referring to gargoyles, then it's a true monster, and I can cite him dates and locations of appearances from memory.

If he truly means carnivorous stones that simply lie on the ground waiting to attack exhausted friars… then he's either making it up or cheating by remembering something from his shadowed past again.

His past… another one of the great mysteries that cloak my friend.  If ever there existed someone who fit the description of an enigma wrapped in a mystery, it's him.  I wasn't one of the people lucky enough to be on hand when he was found originally, and Jinette kept him under lock and key for weeks after, a fact that only increased our curiosity—a curiosity that had been piqued enough by the screams and sobs for forgiveness and damnation both that echoed from his chamber for the first two days.

I smile wryly at my memory of my first meeting with the monster hunter.  I don't know how Van Helsing reacted when the Cardinal told him what he was to do—any normal man would probably have died of asphyxiation from too many paroxysms of mirth at the obvious insanity of the Order—but by the time he was sent to us to receive his arms he had already assumed the personality that has now made him infamous in the Order.  Even at that early date, sarcasm and unwavering confidence were his first tools.

Unfortunately for me, sarcasm can be quickly lost in the void of youth and zeal, both of which I then owned in what should have been lethal doses.

I think his sarcasm and his humor are the only things that have kept him sane for this long—or what the Cardinal so lovingly refers to as "Van Helsing's unique version of sanity".

That is why it is his ability to laugh and banter that I watch so carefully on nights like these, not wanting to tread too far on unknown ice.  So long as he responds to me with a smirk or a laugh instead of a curse or a blade, both of us will be fine.  Once that humor is gone, though… once his ability to look around and find something ironic about the situation… once his ability to sense good, an ability I have learned to trust, is blunted by dissatisfaction with the world in which he lives…

They call him murderer everywhere he is recognized.  Swords and guns have chased us from more towns that I wish to remember.  More than once 'friends' have disappeared for a few moments and reappeared with the authorities in tow, a short plea filled with exquisite detail of how much they need the money or how certain they are of his guilt ready on their tongue.

If murder were not a damning sin, I would have killed my first man many leagues ago. 

Van Helsing is no murderer, no matter what others or even he himself may believe.  The things he kills are certainly no longer human, and yet each kill is ended with a prayer, a Latin blessing to speed the soul of the deceased not to Hell but to Heaven.  Even if his blood is pooling at his feet or the alarm has been sounded that would see him first caged and then hanged, he refuses to move until the dead have been given their last rites and honor… albeit at times a somewhat slurred or very hasty last rite and honor.

I try not to shift restlessly despite the stone—sans teeth—that seems intent on taking a chunk out of my right side no matter how I lie.  Even if my companion's eyes are focused on the heavens, I have no doubt that he hears every move I make.  Van Helsing has spent too many years hunting and being hunted to let his guard down often.

Come to think of it, the only time I ever saw him with his guard truly down was when he didn't have the strength left to keep it up, and even then it was only when he was certain that myself and Frankenstein's creation were the only ones still breathing in the castle that he relaxed completely.

Too completely.

Try as I might, I can't seem to keep my mind from traveling down paths better left untrod.  Van Helsing himself has said before that the past is often better left buried… a very ironic statement coming from the man who gathers the clues to his past with the same avid eagerness and practiced caution with which snake charmers harvest their wares.

Somewhere in the darkness a lone howl rises above the trees, above the clouds, reaching desperately towards the heart of the glowing white orb that has so transfixed my friend.  My eyes open of their own accord and fasten on the dark-haired monster hunter.  The changes in his posture are minute, barely noticeable.  His head tilts ever so slightly, his breathing quickens, his chin rises as he leans forward, and for one panicked moment I can almost see the outline of the dark beast that dwelled within him.

For eons we are frozen in this tableau, both transfixed by the haunting beauty of that call, and I half expect my companion to open his mouth and call out an answer to the lone hunter.  No sound issues from his mouth, though, and finally the wolf's call fades into the darkness.

Even after the normal sounds of nocturnal animals have reclaimed the night my eyes remain fixed on Van Helsing, as if sheer intensity of gaze could pry away his secrets.

"Carl?"  The question is quiet, his own eyes still locked upon the moon, giving me the option of simply turning away and resuming my near-hopeless struggle with the rocky terrain.

"What do you hear when they call?  What do you see up there that calls so strongly?"  As soon as the words escape my mouth I will them back, not wishing to put him more on his guard, not truly certain that I want a response.

Van Helsing is silent, immoveable, another stone amidst stones, dingy darkness drawn by some irresistible grip to the light.

I lie down again, shutting my eyes with sullen purpose.  If it kills me, I will sleep tonight.  Van Helsing as much as said that he would trust me to watch his back when the exhaustion of fighting whatever demons continue to haunt him on these nights reaches its peak.  To be worthy of that trust, I can't be ready to die of exhaustion myself.

For probably the first time in my life, determination actually wins out over Morpheus, and the varied shades of sleep begin to seep slowly through my mind.  My breathing deepens and evens, until even the best hunter would think me completely lost from the world.

The voice is soft, coming as though from a great distance, but the words are crystal clear and sharp as razors.

"I see the one thing I've never had in all the centuries, save for a few moments as a snarling black monster.  I hear the one thing the Left Hand of God will never have."

There is no sorrow in his quiet voice, simply a quiet resignation that sends a pang of loss echoing through my own soul.

"Freedom, my friend.  I sense freedom."


End file.
